Python*

The first time I saw Liam Bourbon, he was breaking my heart. Not in a metaphorical, slow-burn way—but in a literal, game-ending way. A dodgeball to the chest, straight from his wickedly accurate hands.

“Sorry,” he said, jogging over, all messy curls and unfairly perfect dimples. “Didn’t mean to take you out.”

I was still on the floor, gasping. From the impact. Definitely not from the way his hand brushed mine.

“You’re a menace,” I muttered.

*a song by GOT7 that inspires this piece. The lyric goes: shot through the chest I was falling for the shooter.

Surga dengan Harga Tertera

Jika mereka bisa membeli surga,

maka tidak akan ada lagi dinding yang membatasi kesemena-menaan mereka.

Mereka akan mencabut pagar-pagar kematian,

dan menanam koin emas di lubang-lubang pengakuan dosa.

Di meja makan mereka, kemiskinan disajikan seperti lauk dingin,

sementara kesedihan digulung dalam roti mewah yang tidak pernah basi.

Sebab, bagi mereka, manusia hanyalah angka dalam laporan laba,

dan ampunan adalah diskon besar yang datang setiap hari raya.

Aku melihat cara mereka mencetak Tuhan dari mesin uang,

membasuh rasa bersalah dengan derma berbau kemegahan.

Mereka pikir langit bisa disuap dengan pilar-pilar marmer,

dan bahwa air mata orang kecil hanyalah selokan yang harus dikeringkan.

Tetapi, apa yang abadi dari keangkuhan?

Saat tubuh mereka rapuh, tak ada kuitansi yang bisa menukar waktu.

My Name

 

I have very mixed feelings about my name. For starters, I hate my first name. My parents thought it was unique, but honestly? It’s just... weird. Sure, I’ve rarely met anyone with the same name, but wow, did I get teased for it as a kid. It sounds like a boy’s name. Plus, in English, it can mean something totally bizarre. I get that my parents had beautiful dua when they chose it—but yeah, sorry, I still hate it.

Now, my second name? Obsessed. It’s genuinely pretty. My parents weren’t wrong about it being unique—I've never met another person with the same name. Plus, it gives off major main-character energy. If you’ve never met me, I bet you could already picture my whole vibe just from hearing it.

It’s Qintha. With a Q. 😎 Because I was destined to be a little extra from birth.

So, here I am—stuck with a name combo that’s half cringe, half iconic. I guess it’s kind of poetic. Like, my first name reminds me to stay humble, and my second name lets me walk into a room with an anti-mainstream / quirky / still girlish vibe.

Then again, names don’t define you. You define them. 

(Writer's note: Sorry to start the year with such random post)

Dari Dalam Peti Mati

aku keluar dari perangkap,

luka menganga seperti mulut cangkir retak,

dan dunia bersorak: selamat hidup lagi!

tapi siapa peduli hidup kalau yang tersisa

hanya tubuh ini, baring seperti boneka,

laksana air mata yang lupa jatuh,

hanya jadi saksi, bukan pelaku.

kadang aku ingin tidur,

tapi di mana letak tidur bagi yang sudah mati

di dalam hidup?

dan di mana letak hidup

bagi yang cuma menunggu?

High School Crash

"Is crashing into people, like, your hobby or something?" Nate asked, one eyebrow raised as he steadied Emma by the shoulders.

She blinked up at him, momentarily dazed. “Well, it's either that or calculus club, and this one’s more interactive.”

A grin spread across his face, clearly entertained. “And here I thought football practice was intense.”

Emma shrugged, brushing herself off as if nearly plowing into Nate Harrison was no big deal. “You should see me on a Monday morning. Total chaos.”

Nate chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the locker beside her. “So, what’s your name, Miss Chaos?”

She lifted her chin, trying to match his casual confidence. “Emma,” she replied, slipping a note of challenge into her voice. “And you must be Nate, human obstacle extraordinaire.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his heart dramatically. “But fair enough. And hey, maybe next time, you’ll stick around to chat instead of running off to play bumper cars.”

She smirked, glancing at the clock. “Who says I won’t?”

With a quick wave, Emma slipped into the stream of students, leaving him behind, looking intrigued. Nate was still watching her, as if she’d somehow managed to surprise him, and she felt a small thrill. Maybe she had.

Useless Umbrellas

They’d been together through a lot—midnight talks, weekend drives, lazy Sunday mornings. The kind of easy everyday moments that feel like they’ll stretch on forever. But tonight, walking side by side, the silence between them felt heavier than ever.

Dinner was fine, in a polite, distant sort of way. They talked about work, swapped stories, filled the air with small talk, but neither of them seemed to reach out, really. And with each pause, she felt the gap between them widening.

On their way back, she tried to lighten the mood. “Remember our first date? You laughed the whole time I tried to hide that coffee stain on my sweater.”

He chuckled, the kind of laugh that felt more like memory than joy. “You were so embarrassed.”

It was quiet again after that, and as they reached her street corner, he stopped, looking down as if he’d found something incredibly interesting on the sidewalk.

“Maybe…we’re clinging to something we shouldn’t be,” he murmured.

She nodded, both of them knowing it was true but not quite ready to say it out loud.

They exchanged a few quiet goodbyes, both weighed down by things they knew they couldn’t carry anymore.

As she walked home alone, she couldn’t shake the thought: sometimes love is like an umbrella—a shelter in the rain but a burden when the sun comes back out.

***

Writer's Note:

I've been keeping a lot of extremely short stories like this in my vault. I'll set them free and let them breath some fresh air (by publishing them here).

Botany Bethany

She was running late and barely caught the elevator before it closed, wedging herself in next to a guy carrying a plant nearly as tall as he was. He was wrestling to keep it upright, his arm stretched awkwardly around the leafy branches.

“Rough day for the green guy?” she asked, smirking.

He looked over, a little breathless, and grinned. “You’d think I was moving a small tree, not a ficus.”

She laughed, crisp and authentic. “How’s it going? You need an extra hand?”

“Honestly, yeah,” he admitted, shifting the plant toward her. “I think it’s taking me hostage.”

She held one side of the plant as he rearranged his grip, and somehow, between the awkward balancing act and his half-joking apologies, she found herself enjoying the whole ridiculous moment.

When the elevator dinged, he looked at her and said, “Want to grab coffee sometime? I promise it’ll be a lot less...botanical.”